


Holiday Style

by daroh



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, christmas gifts, christmas outfits, holiday clothes, holiday fluff, minor medical jokes, sock talk, ugly holiday socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana buys Merlin and Arthur fuzzy holiday socks, and Merlin thinks they're cute. Arthur might want to agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday Style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amphigoury](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=amphigoury).
  * Inspired by [Winter, Warmth, Traditions](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/89345) by amphigoury. 



> Written for [tavern tales](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/taverntales) December theme, "Winter, Warmth, Traditions," and inspired entirely by amphigoury's delightful banner. Thanks for permission to post your artwork here! I really loved it. :) Thanks to [EachPeachPearPlum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum) for the quick beta and life-giving cheerleading, too. xoxo!

 

 

 

“Arthur, don’t you think our feet look adorable in these socks?” Merlin says, rubbing one of his softly wool-clad feet against Arthur’s. He likes seeing how the firelight appears and disappears from view as his toes stretch for caresses. He knows he’s being sickeningly sappy, but he can’t help it. He’s _feeling_ sappy, like the moment deserves it, and there’s the added bonus that Arthur pretends to hate sappiness.  
  
He looks up from Arthur's shoulder, which he's been resting on, to offer a beaming smile to his newly won boyfriend.  
  
“Don't be such a _girl_ , Merlin. I said we could be official, not officially ridiculous.” Arthur can't look at Merlin as he says this though, since he, too, is smiling rather stupidly. The ski trip with their friends “out” as a couple had been a brilliant idea, and Arthur knows that lounging in front of the fire like this was one of the things he’d been imagining when he suggested it to Merlin.  
  
When Arthur turns back, Merlin is still gazing up at him, his besotted expression unshaken. He slowly bites in on his lower lip—just on one side, and just enough to slide it under his teeth. There’s an intensity to it, and it makes Arthur lose all pretense of irritation. He moves in to taste the kiss that’s begging for it.  
  
“Ah-ah,” Merlin says, interrupting Arthur’s momentum, even as their noses touch. “Tell me our feet look cute first.” The sultriness of his voice is as frustrating as the warmth of his breath. The swollen wetness of his mouth so close to Arthur’s isn’t helping matters either.  
  
Arthur tries to break Merlin’s determination with a dismissal. “Why? What's the difference?” he says, inching forward for a peck, at least. Merlin inches back in defense.  
  
“The difference is that you know you're cheesier than I am, and you were looking forward to snogging like this in front of the fire even more than I was. Officially snogging, I mean."  
  
“In official Christmas socks? Yes, Merlin, it's been my lifelong dream. What was I thinking, getting distracted by your mouth when you're wearing old flannel pyjamas tucked into thick woolen holiday socks?”  
  
“That's what I'm saying!” Merlin says without sarcasm. “Look.” He rubs his left foot along the top of Arthur's right one, which instinctively bends up into the caress. It's achingly cute, Arthur thinks as he scans their long legs intertwined, their feet warm and happy, the fire in front of them absolutely picturesque. He’s a bit giddy with the schmaltz of the scene, his arm proudly around Merlin, no matter who sees them, and their bodies pressed together from head to toe. Still, he can’t give in to Merlin that easily, especially since he loves how Merlin pretends to hate when Arthur is stubborn.  
  
“Well, I admit mine _do_ look rather cute,” he finally assesses. “Those snowflakes on yours, however,” he adds with a critical turn, “not to mention all the other patterns. I think Gaius's cocker spaniel has a coat to match those socks. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen that coat in a while. Are you sure those socks came from a store, Merlin?”  
  
Merlin scoffs. “Are you suggesting Morgana actually sewed these for us?”

Arthur shrugs, conceding the point, but his feet are still challenging Merlin’s as if they have a mind of their own.  
  
“You're just jealous that mine are more festive than yours.”  
  
“ _Festive?_ ” Arthur mocks. “Your feet look like hockey sticks wearing the world’s longest mittens.”  
  
Merlin’s laugh is fond and genuine, but he leans forward, determined on a comeback. “You know what they say about men with long mittens. Anyway, yours look like oaf’s feet wrapped in industrial fencing.”  
  
“Oaf’s feet! I’m no oaf!”  
  
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Morgana says, walking into the room. “You’re lucky Merlin is willing to let people know you bed him. Come to think of it, you’re lucky he lets you bed him at all.”  
  
“She’s got a point,” Merlin says.

“These feet, I’ll have you know, are evolved from the feet of centuries of divinely appointed royalty. They couldn’t be more shapely.”  
  
“So inbreeding is to blame for those cricket bats. Interesting,” Morgana says.  
  
“Who asked you, Morgana? Get out of here. We were having a moment.”  
  
“Of course you were, Arthur. I think that was Merlin’s point. I’ll just fetch some cocoa and you two can go back to your Thomas Kinkade painting.”  
  
She heads for the lodge’s kitchen, her good mood intact. They’re fairly certain she’s just getting herself tea, but there’s always a chance she’ll be back with cocoa and some fuzzy hats to go with the socks she’s given them. Knowing her, she’ll also have a camera ready to fully capture their shame.  
  
In the first few minutes she’s gone, they silently bask in the feeling of holding each other close and warm, neither quite ready to forsake the intimacy or any point of contact just to get in another one-liner.  
  
Or so Arthur thought.  
  
“Well, my perfect gentleman,” Merlin begins after a thorough lick of his lips, “I believe you were about to kiss my feet—metaphorically—though I wouldn’t say no to some actual toe sucking.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound exactly gentlemanly, but I do believe we’re finally getting somewhere,” Arthur answers, angling his body over Merlin’s to keep further protests at bay.  
  
Merlin’s not yet heard the magic words, though, and he pushes weakly against Arthur’s chest. “We will be, Arthur, once you tell me what I want to hear.” His smirk is irresistible.  
  
Arthur takes his time studying Merlin’s features. Finally, he whispers, “You’re gorgeous,” placing a hand behind Merlin’s neck.  
  
“Well, that’s nice!” Merlin smiles, tilting his head up to bask at the ceiling and in the compliment. Arthur starts planting kisses on his neck, but Merlin still argues. “But that’s not it.”  
  
There’s a thoughtful breath on Merlin’s skin and he bites his lip wondering which way Arthur will take things.  
  
Which two ways is more like it, since Arthur’s free hand starts pulling at the drawstring on Merlin’s pyjamas while he says through a drying mouth, “Fine. You’re bloody cute. Now can I have my kiss?” 

His cock already interested when Arthur’s hand reaches beneath the fabric, Merlin hums and presses his hips into the pressure of Arthur’s fingers.  
  
“Not just me, Arthur—” he manages between strokes of Arthur’s hand, “—us. We’re cute. I mean our feet—our feet are— _oh_ —”  
  
“ _Oh_ , I thought so,” Arthur whispers. He picks up his head to take his kiss, but Merlin smiles at him devilishly, shaking his head even as he tries to unbuckle Arthur’s belt.  
  
“No kiss till you say it. And why are you still in jeans?” The starched denim really doesn’t fit with the moment.  
  
“I thought they went well with my socks.”  
  
“You git. Nothing goes well with your socks. Just say it so we can get on with this!”  
  
“How bad do you want me to?” Arthur starts helping with his zipper.  
  
“As badly as you do!”  
  
Merlin’s gaze is intense now, insisting that Arthur give in.  
  
“I do, but I’m awfully stubborn,” the prat says.  
  
“Yes, but I’m gorgeous.”  
  
A blush spreads from Merlin’s neck to his cheeks as he says it, but it unintentionally helps his case. He’s devastatingly cute, even while he’s hotly pressing into Arthur’s hand.  
  
“You are. And your feet look adorable in your Christmas socks.”  
  
“Our feet,” Merlin sheepishly corrects.  
  
“Our feet,” Arthur concedes, happier than he imagined he could be to agree about such a thing. “But if anyone asks, I never said such a thing.”  
  
He sinks down into a kiss, Merlin’s lips parting immediately to take him in. Their mouths are warm and wet and lovely, and the sounds of their kissing mingle with the crackling of the fire.  
  
Arthur moves his hand up to their open kiss, and they each give it a slow, wet lick, staring in each other’s eyes. He brings it back down to their cocks that are keening for slickened strokes.  
  
It’s not long before they’re both feeling the need for more, but the noise of a teacup in the sink reminds them not everything they do has to be in public.  
  
“Come on,” Arthur says, pulling Merlin up with one hand and holding his jeans together with the other. “I’ve got some things I want to hear you say now, and they’re not nearly as innocent as your foot nonsense.”  
  
“I’ll just hope they don’t involve holiday wear, for my own sake,” Merlin says.  
  
“Hope all you want, Merlin. Just remember you haven’t seen my presents yet.”  
  
“Well I'm glad it’s not Christmas today then. I guess I’ll be telling you whatever you want, Boyfriend Arthur.” Merlin's laughter lingers in the hallway as their footsteps fade.  
  
“For starters, tell me I have the chiseled extremities of a Greek god,” Morgana hears just as the bedroom door closes.  
  
“Oh, brother,” she says, adding more brandy to the mulling wine and pouring another glass for herself. She silently toasts her undeniable talent for gift-giving, then chuckles and takes a sip.  
  
—End—


End file.
